We never talked about the infidelity he’d confessed to. In those moments when I couldn’t help but think about it, I told myself it was a good thing; it had been the catalyst for Gabe getting the help he needed and turning his life – our lives – around. All that mattered was that I had Gabe back. The real Gabe. He was finally fixed, and now we could live in peace.
33
AMANDA
AFTER
‘I‘d like to speak to the investigators in charge of my wife’s suicide . . . Amanda Cameron . . . Yes, I’ll hold.’
Max is in the kitchen. On the counter in front of him, was the article about Gabe saving lives at The Drop. He stares at it as if the answers he’s looking for will suddenly leap from the page. It’s affirming to see that despite our troubles, Max still cares about what happened to me. It’s probably born out of a desire to protect himself, but it heartens me nevertheless.
I can tell the moment the person comes to the phone because Max stands tall again. ‘Yes, hello, it’s Max Cameron here. I have a few questions about my wife’s death. Do you mind telling me from where, exactly, she jumped?’
He glances down at the newspaper.
‘I see.’ His eyes close. ‘Yes. I know the place. And one other question, if I may. You mentioned someone was with her before she . . . yes. Do you happen to have the person’s name?’
He listens a moment. Then the hand not holding the phone clenches into a fist. I wait for him to say something – that the man is a former employee, that Max had fired him. When he doesn’t, I’m not surprised. It makes sense, under the circumstances, that Max would want to deal with this himself.
He ends the call, puts the phone down on the counter and looks out the window. I can practically see his brain ticking. It’s amazing how often people underestimate Max. They take him at face value, seeing a thoughtful, intelligent, considerate gentleman. Don’t get me wrong – he is all these things. But Max didn’t get to where he was by being kind and lovely. When he needs to be, he’s as ruthless as the next guy – with one difference: no one ever sees him coming.
34
AMANDA
BEFORE
After the pregnancy that never was, Max and I entered a new season of our marriage. I pushed my feelings for him to the side and, instead of focusing on what I wasn’t getting from my husband, I focused on what I was: a comfortable life with a good man. Experiences and possessions beyond the wildest dreams of most people. It wasn’t so bad.
Instead of nagging Max to come home earlier, I waited up for him. Often, when he arrived home at midnight, I would have wine and a cheese platter ready for him. Max didn’t seem to find this irritating, the way he had with my demands that he be home in time for dinner. In fact, he told me once that he looked forward to our new ritual. Sometimes we sat up until two or three in the morning, just chatting idly.
After a while, he started to open up to me. He described the pressure he’d been under to get the online business up and running. He told me about the two occasions on which he’d thought he was going to lose everything – the house, the business. One of those times, I discovered, had been the night of the paella. I made him promise that from now on he would share his problems with me, no matter how bad. ‘Believe it or not,’ I said, ‘I can handle it.’
Max regarded me for a long time then. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I do believe it.’
A few weeks later, I came home early from a charity function one evening and found Max sitting at the dining room table with his head in his hands.
‘What’s wrong?’ I asked him.
He didn’t even look up. ‘It’s all so much more expensive than I thought.’
I pulled up a chair beside him. The online business again, I ascertained. He’d spent months setting it up. I thought it would have taken off by now. Clearly Max had thought so too. ‘But I thought it was all ready to go?’
‘It is. But the bank has cold feet and won’t advance the final payment. And I have no money left. There are no more investors. At least, none that I would want to call on.’
I thought about that for a moment. ‘Why don’t you call on them anyway?’
Max didn’t reply.
‘Sometimes,’ I said thoughtfully, ‘the road to our destination leads us in a direction we don’t want to take. But does it matter, in the end, if it gets us where we want to go?’
It felt like the right thing to say. It was the kind of thing Max himself might have said. Perhaps that’s why he lifted his head. After several seconds, he smiled. I wish I could have bottled that smile. It was the way you want the man you love to smile at you.
‘You’re right,’ he said.
The next morning, I made coffee while Max showered and dressed. When he emerged, he was bright-eyed and focused. I fed him, pumped him up and then waved him off at the door, still in my nightgown.
‘Go get it done,’ I said to him.
By the end of the day, Max had the money he needed. In desperate times, sometimes we do desperate things.
The online business moved us into a new stratosphere of wealth. We bought a new house – a mansion. We had a swimming pool, a tennis court, a private cinema. An underground car park with room for twelve vehicles. It was ridiculous. I adored it all.
I filled my days with enjoyable, purposeless things like tennis and shopping and visits to art galleries. I started a ‘classics’ book club. I took photographs of my friends’ children and grandchildren and gave them as gifts. And I kept an eye on Max. If he left his phone or computer lying around, I’d take a quick look. I never found anything incriminating – usually it was mind-numbingly boring – but that didn’t stop me. I still wondered about the laptop that remained locked in the safe; I had never seen it again.
I’d like to say that I drew the line at spying, but shamefully that wasn’t the case. On the rare occasions when I came home and saw Max’s car already there, I always took advantage of it. There was one such occasion that stands out in my memory. It was a weekday, around 5 pm. That alone was reason to be suspicious. Max was never home from work by five unless he was ill – or, perhaps, up to something.
When I noticed his car in the garage, I slid inside quietly. It was a mild evening, and he was on the patio, talking on the phone with the French doors ajar. He was in his suit, minus the tie and the jacket. His sleeves were rolled up.
I crept as close as I could and concealed myself behind the curtains. Max’s back was ramrod straight, and he was pacing.
‘I understand,’ he was saying, ‘and I’m grateful for your support, but I’m now in a position to return your investment. I’m sure you can appreciate why I’d want to do that.’
Even though it was clearly a business call, and I hadn’t stumbled on evidence of an affair, I continued to listen anyway; I appreciated the calm, authoritative way that Max handled himself.
‘That may be the case, but as I’ve delivered great returns for you, I’d like to think that we’re even.’
It was obvious that the person on the other end of the phone was not happy, which was odd. What kind of person would get angry about someone wanting to return their money?
‘I’m sorry you feel that way,’ Max said finally, ‘but I’ve already decided. The money will be transferred back into your account at the end of the month.’